


Wait for the Ricochet

by strangeh (Elfgrandfather)



Series: Putin/Medvedev Archaeological Dig (Old Fics) [5]
Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18761695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/strangeh
Summary: Emotions run high after an assassination attempt.





	Wait for the Ricochet

**Author's Note:**

> This was my penultimate fic for this fandom, and at the time, it was the longest thing I'd written. I think it was the Summer before I went to university, so it must have been 2011. It's fun seeing the seeds of what would later become regular features of my writing.
> 
> When I wrote this I didn't know Putin is notoriously late to everything, so just ignore that (the rest is perfectly in-character, of course).
> 
> Title is a reference to Deep Purple's [Child in Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfAWReBmxEs), because it's Medvedev's fave band and it seems appropriate.

Dmitry first noticed something was off when he reached out to stroke Dorofei and the cat let out short, robotic bleeps. The fact that he and Vladimir were having tea on a giant blimp tied to a strand of grass near the Kremlin was the second indication. Somehow, Vladimir having a green fluorescent poodle who was also George Clooney in his lap didn’t seem strange at all.

Dorofei suddenly jumped on his arm and clawed into it through his suit, making Dmitry flinch even though he hardly felt it.  
  
‘Get up, it’s time for work!’ he screeched.  
  
Dmitry jolted up and almost smashed into Svetlana, who was gently stroking his arm. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and then Svetlana smiled. Dmitry followed suit, and soon they were laughing in each other’s arms, the first true display of joy they’d shared in months.  
  
‘Come on,’ she said, still smiling, standing up now, ‘you need to get ready.’  
  
He glanced at the digital alarm clock next to his head and groaned, throwing the pillow over his face. Svetlana pulled it off and tossed it over to her side of the bed, tutting at him.  
  
‘What’s the matter? It’s your first real outing with Vladimir Vladimirovich ever since that Italian journalist made that silly comment. Don’t you like spending time with him anymore?’

Memories of the reporter asking if their relationship was "beyond friendship" coloured his cheeks, and he roughly rubbed his eyes, as if trying to physically erase the thought. At Surkov's suggestion, they'd toned down the public appearances significantly, and it was all starting to feel a little lonely.  
  
‘I do, I do, I’d just…’ he miserably pawed for the just-out-of-reach pillow, giving up in about two seconds. ‘I’d just rather be doing other things at six in the morning. Like sleeping.’  
  
‘You gave up your normal person sleeping privileges when you took on this job.’  
  
Dmitry shot her a sarcastic smile and rose, shuffling towards the bathroom and scratching his back through his navy blue pyjama top. He was dreamily brushing his teeth when the realization that Vladimir would probably be picking him up a good thirty minutes earlier than planned hit, finally jump-starting him into action, and he efficiently went through his morning routine: shaving, washing, inspecting the so-called casual clothing his style team had laid out for him the night before (for some reason, they didn’t seem to trust him when it came to picking clothes). It was a strange light blue polo shirt affair, with beige slacks and black shoes, to match his black belt. Dmitry looked forlornly at the Black Sabbath t-shirt that always seemed to hang in the closet and never on him, then sadly accepted his fate and pulled on his outfit.  
  
A member of his house-keeping staff (it seemed too snooty to say ‘servant’) came into the dining room just as he swallowed the last piece of toast on his plate. Dmitry knew what it meant.  
  
‘Mr Medvedev, Mr Putin is outside in the car. Shall I tell him to come in?’  
  
Dmitry stood and nodded at him.   
  
‘I’ll join him, thank you. You can go.’  
  
The man nodded back gratefully and Dmitry started down the corridor, grabbing a thin jacket from a random member of staff who was loitering in the main hall. He caught sight of Svetlana sleepily leaning on the banister on the first floor and waved at her before stepping out, walking three steps and entering the black limousine. Vladimir smiled at him when he came in, seemingly genuinely. Dmitry returned the favour and settled comfortably in the leather seat.  
  
‘You know, you could've just texted me, it would’ve spared you having to call Iosif to tell me you were out here.’  
  
Vladimir gestured dismissively.  
  
‘Does it look like I have the time to learn how to use an iPhone? Besides, it would have been the nervous teenage date attitude to take,’ he said, flipping his sunglasses open and putting them on, ‘not that of the leader of Russia.’  
  
For some reason, Dmitry felt like listening to The Who. Vladimir looked Dmitry up and down and nodded approvingly.  
  
‘I like your clothes, they give you more muscle tone than you actually have. Good choice.’  
  
Dmitry decided to take that as a compliment and replied in kind, though Vladimir’s outfit wasn’t the best he’d seen: like on a previous outing, he was wearing a large, long-sleeved shirt, with light blue jeans. Dmitry could faintly make out a white undershirt, and Vladimir’s cross almost sprang out through the white material. You could only really tell he was healthy and strong if you were sitting as close as Dmitry was. It seemed to have been chosen to make him look shapeless next to the fit President, and he said as much.  
  
‘Hm,' Vladimir nodded. 'I think it was chosen to make me look shapeless next to you.’  
  
Dmitry smiled nervously. Vladimir looked out the black tainted window, enjoying the views of Moscow. They were going to drive to a park that had been scouted out earlier, go for a walk around the small lake, pose on the little wooden pier as they talked (about doubtelessly pressing government issues), maybe even feed a duck or two. They would then go to a common restaurant and watch a world cup game. Things two friends would do.

They drove in silence for a while, until Dmitry gave a polite cough.  
  
‘So, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Do you like George Clooney?’  
  
\---  
  
The street leading up to the park had been barred off, and the sidewalk immediately before that was filled with curious onlookers. Some left when they saw the car pull up, showing passive resistance when they recognized the political set-up, but most stayed. Dmitry smiled out the window and chanced a wave before he remembered they couldn’t see him and sheepishly putting his hand down. He hoped Vladimir hadn’t seen. Dmitry cautiously glanced over at his Prime Minister and saw the man was staring out his own window, looking at the crowds in an almost fatherly fashion. It made Dmitry smile more. He did like being around Vladimir, even in the morning, especially when he was in a good mood. He’d missed these outings.  
  
They pulled up outside the park and came out their respective doors, smiling broadly at the photographers and waving jauntily before Vladimir rounded the car and gently guided Dmitry towards the lake in a practised manner. What they told each other during these private meetings was almost always inaudible to the press, and due to the atmosphere it was often hard to concentrate on state affairs, so they would usually just settle for joking about the situation, commenting on different journalists or fellow politicians, and talking about their private lives. It fulfilled the ‘casual’ requisite of these outings perfectly.  
  
‘I think my son has a girlfriend,’ Dmitry said, putting his hands in his pockets.  
  
‘Good. At his age, I'd already had four. Encourage him.’  
  
‘I will. You know, it was at school that I met Svetlana, maybe he’ll find his future wife too!’  
  
Remarks like these always earned him a benevolent, slightly patronising look. Dmitry blushed and turned his eyes towards the lake, quickly looking at Vladimir again when he felt the older man’s fingers brush his forearm.   
  
‘Maybe he will, Dima.’  
  
Dmitry allowed himself a real grin and indicated the pier with his chin.  
  
‘I think they want us to start heading there. Shall we go?’  
  
‘Yes, yes, I just want to get to that restaurant already. I hardly had time for a good breakfast this morning,’ his expression soured somewhat. ‘Even though we’ll have to sit through a football match…’  
  
‘Well, it’s a sport that brings the whole world together! That's something, at least,’ Dmitry said hastily. Vladimir snorted.  
  
‘I’d hardly call running after a ball a sport. Sport is something you put your whole body into, like judo or swimming, even tennis. Any child can run.’  
  
Dmitry decided to stay silent. He liked football, and that was all there was to it. If he was a weakling or a terrible sports appreciator because of that, so be it. 

They chatted amiably about rumours they’d heard concerning Sarkozy’s wife sleeping with every other man, pretended not to notice the boat with photographers, and even got to do the anticipated duck feeding. As they showered corn into the water, chuckling at ducklings zipping like little speedboats towards the food, Vladimir spoke.  
  
‘I’m glad you’re here, Dima.’  
  
Dmitry turned his head to him, surprised, but Vladimir wasn’t looking at him, or even displaying any real emotion, just pleasantly watching the ducks. Dmitry continued looking at him, seizing the moment the press crew were taking a short break. He was about to say they should start heading to the restaurant when Vladimir finally turned his face just enough to show him a real smile. One of the rare ones that made his eyes crease and made him look like a genuinely unbroken person, one of the rare ones where his misty eyes seemed to turn sky blue. Dmitry couldn’t stop his own smile, and carried Vladimir’s gaze as the man turned around to indicate they were done with the ducks to the closest assistant.  
  
Then, Vladimir took a step closer. It looked like he was going to speak when Dmitry felt something whiz past his arm. Vladimir’s face suddenly twisted into a silent scream. He staggered back and let out an earnest yell, doubling over. Alarmed, Dmitry was about to ask what was wrong when he was frozen into place by the spreading bright red stain on Vladimir’s pure white shirt, emanating from what looked like a single perfect hole on his stomach. Dmitry’s brain seemed to process it faster than his emotions did, and one hand shot out to keep his friend up while the other covered his own mouth, which seemed to refuse to close. He was a fraction too late, and so were all the bodyguards present. Time seemed to freeze for a second until another bullet hit the water, immediately followed by a much larger splash as Vladimir fell.  
  
Three men immediately jumped after him. Dmitry tried to move his legs in vain, his eyes darting from the swimming men in black to the press crew filming every second in their goddamn rowboat to the wisps of Vladimir’s hair that were still visible above water. He felt himself being roughly pushed away by another black-clad clone, as others yelled instructions and started shooting in the general direction of where they suspected the sniper to be.  
  
The last thing Dmitry saw before he went into auto-pilot was Vladimir’s limp body as the bodyguards pulled him out, the water causing his white shirt to stick to him, making the blood seem paler and highlighting the dark wound on his abdomen.  
  
\---  
  
He didn’t react when one of the maids gently placed the cup down in front of him. He merely continued to stare into space. Svetlana sat in the chair near the sofa he was on, looking at her husband with mounting worry.  
  
‘Dima, drink some tea. Try.’  
  
He didn't move, just breathed in deeply, releasing the air in a not-quite sigh. Svetlana grabbed his hand and put it on the table. Dmitry looked at it like it wasn’t attached to his body, then finally snaked it around the cup and brought the tea to his lips, downing the contents in one long gulp. Minutes passed before he suddenly stood up, still clutching the cup.

‘I have to see him,’ he breathed, starting toward the hall with a determined pace. Svetlana stumbled to her feet and dogged his steps, gently touching his back. He stopped abruptly and looked at her.  
  
‘They probably won’t let you in, Dima-‘  
  
‘I can’t just- just not go!’ he snarled, taking a step away from her. ‘I was there, for Christ’s sake, I should've heard it coming, I could’ve at least kept him from falling into a fucking lake, or- or I could’ve at least pulled him out. I just ran, like a bloody coward.’  
  
‘Don’t you think one victim is enough for today?’ his wife replied, snatching the cup from him before he could break it. ‘You couldn’t do anything to help.’  
  
‘I can now. Watch me.’  
  
And with that, he almost sprinted away, bursting out the front door and dislodging the bodyguard who’d been assigned to stand there all day, doing nothing but contemplating the futility of his own life. Said man stepped in front of him.  
  
‘Mr Medvedev, you should stay inside. There could be more suspects out there, I’d go back in -’  
  
‘No, no, I need to do this. Please get out of the way, get out,’ Dmitry said, pushing the man aside. The bodyguard was torn: he had to protect the President, but then again: _this_ _was_  the President. He could hardly disobey a direct order. So he opted for awkwardly following his employer instead. Dmitry marched to the car that was always parked near the house, surprising the driver who was leaning against the black limousine, smoking a cigarette, which he promptly stubbed out on the sole of his shoe.  
  
‘Mr Medvedev-!’  
  
‘Just take me to the hospital, please, you know which one.’ He turned to the man who’d been running after him and pointed at the house. ‘Make sure no one gets in, alright? I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Go.’  
  
The bodyguard gave a curt nod, glad to have been given a new task, and hurried back to his original spot. Dmitry ducked into the car as another spare guard did the same in the front passenger seat. When he felt the car start up, Dmitry clicked on the button that operated the divider and cut himself off from the world. He spent the journey fighting back tears, anxiously scratching his legs through the thin material of his slacks to relieve the remorse he felt he’d have to deal with every day from now on.  
  
\---  
  
The hall in the hospital was filled to the brim with journalists from every kind of news source imaginable, including a few foreign ones who had been lucky enough to be on location or had managed to shuttle to Moscow in five hours. Dmitry felt a horrible sense of entrapment when he walked in, surrounded by bodyguards. He wanted to scream, to bash and throttle every leech in the building like they’d been personally responsible for the attack.

Of course, a scene like this could only play in his mind, and he was determined not to show weakness. He imagined himself as Moses as the guards parted the crowd, staring straight ahead and ignoring the flashes, the fact that a guard actually had to punch a microphone out of the way, and the subsequent loud Italian cursing.  
  
‘Ah, Mr Medvedev, glad to see you, sir.’  
  
Dmitry shook the man’s hand, not remembering him. Probably an assistant who had been at the park. They were already quite deep into the hospital, but the noise from the hall could still easily be heard. Most were wails of foreign reporters, protesting as security tried to remove them. The local news had left when they saw conflict: they knew what they’d be risking if they stayed, and they knew they’d get priority for the coverage anyway.  
  
‘How is he?’ Dmitry asked, looking at the door behind the man and imagining gruesome scenarios.  
  
‘Well, they’re still busy, but I heard Mr Putin’s stable. They probably just want to do a full check-up.’  
  
Dmitry nodded. He’d been given a thorough examination himself, even though he'd protested that he’d obviously not been hit. The assistant smiled kindly at him.  
  
‘We’ll keep you updated. Why don’t you go back home and rest, sir? We’ll take care of everything.’  
  
‘But I only just got here!’ Dmitry said, sounding a little desperate. ‘I could wait until the surgery’s over, I wouldn’t mind. I want to.’  
  
Almost immediately after saying this, Dmitry realized who would mind: everyone in the security staff. It was bad enough he’d stormed off without telling anyone, making them all scramble to catch up, but with the attack so fresh on everyone’s minds he'd just be aggravating them with his requests. Dmitry quickly weighed his options, but decided to stand firm. He wanted to be there. And he told them that again.  
  
The man he’d been addressing beckoned two bodyguards over and they huddled up, muttering as Dmitry stood near the plastic chairs. After a few minutes, the group dispersed and both bodyguards stalked off to arrange everything. The assistant nodded to Dmitry, who smiled gratefully.  
  
‘Alright, Mr Medvedev, we’ll lead you to a more comfortable waiting area. We can drive you back whenever you want, though we would appreciate prior notice. It will enable us to properly check the area and the car for any…’ he trailed off, not wanting to say the word ‘assassins’, and smiled instead. ‘Just tell us, sir.’  
  
Dmitry nodded gratefully. A few minutes later, one of the security scouts returned, and Dmitry was led into a small room which he supposed was a former patient’s. After looking around, he dismissed his team, and was told they’d be waiting outside and would tell him of any news on Vladimir’s condition.

Once alone, Dmitry sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, and tried to think. He’d been overcome with grief on the way to the hospital, but now, he was struggling to feel much of anything. When he thought back on what had happened, he shuddered and felt a pang in his chest, but that was about it. If he dwelt too much on Vladimir’s possible death, he felt his eyes get watery, but to say he felt sad would be too much of a stretch. As one of his favourite bands had once said, he felt comfortably numb. In feelings, anyway. The inside of his head buzzed with all of the day’s information, and everything he saw seemed to add to the hive of worry, even meaningless details like those flowers on the bedside table obviously having been placed there just before he arrived, to make the hospital look better. It was a wonder he hadn’t developed a skull-splitting migraine.  
  
With a heavy sigh, Dmitry adjusted himself on the bed, and eventually lay down, turning over on one side. He thought of Vladimir, and realized he was probably lying in an identical bed right about now, which was oddly comforting. As he lay there, all the day’s exhaustion suddenly flooded him, and as he judged he wouldn’t be getting news for a while, he allowed himself to drift off. In the twilight between sleep and consciousness, Dmitry imagined lying next to his friend, Vladimir looking unharmed and peaceful, and Dmitry with an arm draped over his chest. He was too tired to think about the implications of these musings, and finally succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep.  
  
\---  
  
‘Mr President?’ Dmitry’s eyes fluttered open, his eyelashes sticking slightly. They felt slightly wet, like he’d cried in his seep. The man from before was standing next to the bed, flicking stray blonde hairs from his eyes. Dmitry felt he really ought to ask for his name.  
  
‘What is it?’  
  
‘Good evening, sir. You came in about five hours ago, and Mr Putin has since woken up from his anaesthetic. Wait, sir,’ he interjected, as Dmitry rushed to stand, ‘I do want to warn you that he’s awake, but still very drowsy, so he might not make very much sense… thankfully, the stomach wasn’t punctured, just the… well, we’ll tell you the details later. At any rate, he will be heavily medicated for the next week, and he’ll probably need crutches for a while, but despite his age, with his health, he should make a splendid recovery.’  
  
The whole speech came very fast, the man trying to get everything out before Dmitry managed to sidestep him and exit the room. With one hand on the doorknob, Dmitry looked at him for a while, then nodded gratefully.  
  
‘Alright. Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind.’  
  
A pause.  
  
‘What is your name?’  
  
He smiled.  
  
‘Igor Gennadievich Ulyanov, sir.’  
  
‘Huh. Alright, Igor Gennadievich. Lead the way, please.’

\---

Dmitry wasn’t sure what to say to a man who had mysteriously aged ten years in as many hours.

Vladimir was in a white room, in a white hospital bed, the white covers pulled over him, a piece of white tape that had been holding a tube to his mouth still stuck near his lip. His usually impressive frame looked strangely shrunken in the white hospital gown, alarmingly similar in colour to his skin and hair. Around him, tubes carried coloured fluids in and out of his body, adding a touch of brightness to the picture. The only other colour that stood out was the grey-blue of Vladimir’s half-lidded eyes as they focused on nothing that Dmitry could see. He hadn’t been allowed in yet, but Vladimir was plainly visible through a large glass window that separated the corridor from the recovery room.

Igor inched close to the President and whispered that Vladimir had lost a fair amount of blood before reaching the hospital, hence the paleness and need for transfusions. The anguish only slightly left Dmitry’s face. He had expected a shocking display, but felt instead overcome with the pathetic, sad aspect of what he saw. A few nurses were fussing around the invalid, checking monitors and doing various other things Dmitry couldn’t begin to comprehend. One nodded to the other, and carefully inserted a needle into the usually powerful man’s arm, eliciting no response and connecting him to an IV bag hanging near a wall. Vladimir said something, and the nurses left, immediately turning to Dmitry when they exited.  
  
‘We were told you would be here, Mr President. If you would like to speak to Mr Putin before we move him up to his room, you would be most welcome.’  
  
Under other circumstances, Dmitry would have pondered on the unorthodoxy of allowing a non-family member access to someone in Vladimir’s present condition. But for now, he was glad of the special treatment he was entitled to. So he just sketched a smile and trooped into the room. Igor closed it, allowing the two men a few moments of (relative) privacy, and leaving to find a coffee machine so he wouldn’t be tempted to watch through the window.  
  
Dmitry stood at the foot of Vladimir’s bed for a few moments as they silently looked at each other. Well, on Vladimir’s part, it wasn’t as much looking as vaguely squinting. He pressed his lips together, and finally spoke, his voice raspy.  
  
‘You’re not Lyudmila.’  
  
‘I know. Sorry.’  
  
‘No, it’s a good thing. When they told me someone was here to see me, I thought she’d burst in and immediately start with the sobbing ‘Volodya, Volodya, what have you done to yourself’ routine.’  
  
Dmitry smiled shyly, but became instantly worried when Vladimir coughed deeply and winced.  
  
‘Are you alright?’  
  
‘I just got shot. I’m not going to die of a cough.’  
  
Seeing Dmitry’s saddened reaction, Vladimir sighed and said:  
  
‘No, I’m alright. I think they had one of those, ah, tubes down my throat so I could breathe during the surgery, or something like that, and it scraped the insides when it was removed.’  
  
‘Ah.’  
  
A short silence. Another cough. Dmitry held onto the white board at the foot of the bed, silently tapping his fingers along the edge of the plastic. Finally, Vladimir sighed, and tried to shift in place, giving up when he realized it was too much effort. He shook his head a little too violently when Dmitry stepped around the bed to help.  
  
‘Don’t, Dima, I don’t want help, no,’ he groaned, weakly waving his hand. ‘I’d like it better if you weren’t here at all. I’m tired, I can’t feel my body, and I feel like my head… turned into a balloon while I was sleeping.’  
  
Dmitry ignored the comment about his presence, and stopped next to the top of the bed, so Vladimir only had to slightly turn his head to look at him. Dmitry gazed over the frail man, trying to recognize the powerful being he always looked up to, and was relieved to see the fighting glimmer in his eyes. Dmitry smiled a sad little smile.  
  
‘I imagine you’re tired, Volodya, yes. I’ll leave now. I’m sure your wife will want to see you. I’m sorry I took the liberty of coming over, but I,’ a shaky laugh, followed by a dry-swallow, ‘I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’  
  
Vladimir didn’t reply for several seconds, and Dmitry was about to leave when the other man mustered all his strength and pulled on his sleeve.  
  
‘Thank you, Dima.’  
  
He limited himself to looking at his friend for a short while, then continued:  
  
‘If you would like to visit me when I can think, I'd be glad to see you. Just don’t come see me if it means delaying anything _important_ , for God’s sake. Friends aren’t worth bungled policy.’  
  
Dmitry grinned at the older man, and lightly covered the hand holding his sleeve before it let go. ‘I’ll be back soon. On Saturday. Expect me.’  
  
He gave his friend a curt wave before leaving the room, and burst into tears almost before he’d clicked the door shut, angrily wiping at his eyes with the cuffs of his shirt. He was glad to see the security staff was a respectful distance away, and that if they could hear or see him, they didn’t show it. He heard a clatter of high heels coming down the corridor, and quickly stifled his last sob, gave his face a final wipe and darted away, not keen on seeing Mrs Putina right now. He soon found Igor lurking near a coffee machine, downing his third cup as he saw the President arrive. Igor nodded, and signalled for the Presidential car to be prepared.  
  
They spent ten wordless minutes in the small cubic room, with its little square window, rubber plant and humming coffee machine. Dmitry mentally prepared himself for the deluge of questions he’d have to face once he left the hospital, going through several conversations in his head at once. When the car was ready, he obediently stood and followed his crew. In the end, despite the scenarios he’d played out, he simply ignored any questions journalists threw at him. He mechanically looked out the window of the automobile on his way home. Once he got there, he showered, the hot water turning his skin pink, shrugged on a pair of boxers and t-shirt, and flopped on the bed. He touched his own hand as he drifted off, imagining one of them belonged to another person, imagining it as being larger, hairless, and sinewy. He smiled, and dropped off.  
  
\---  
  
That night, he dreamt.

Once awake, most of it was blurry, but he specifically recalled being in the Kremlin, waiting for a meeting with Vladimir, when he suddenly felt a wetness on his head, and looked up to see the ceiling was dripping on him. When he looked down, the desk was sweating mahogany, and when he took a second look at his office, it burst into splashes of colour, washing over him, entering his lungs, and making him drop for hours into the blackness of an ever-melting world.  
  
A few days passed at a snail’s crawl, Dmitry having to juggle his normal duties, interviews about the shooting, reading and answering letters of concerned foreign leaders (and a few shady businessmen) and dealing with the trial of the gunman, all of this with double or triple the usual security measures. At least he wasn’t flying around to meet people, since he’d been told not to leave the country for a couple of weeks, while the dust settled and they made sure there weren’t further attacks. Dmitry was glad: he felt too tired to travel, and having to stay in the area meant he could visit Vladimir when the occasion presented itself.  
  
Said occasion was on Saturday, when most harassing news people decided to take a break with the money they’d earned selling Dmitry’s fatigue. After lunch, he kissed his wife and his son goodbye and set off for the hospital, a trip he’d had to negotiate with security for close to an hour the day before, finally convincing them by saying he needed to discuss an urgent matter with Vladimir concerning the wages of certain personnel in the Kremlin.  
  
When Dmitry entered the new, private room, he was relieved to see that the other man looked much better already. He wasn’t back to his former glory, but his skin had regained most of its colour, his hair, despite having gotten some new permanent white hairs, had gone back to its blondish hue, and his eyes were bright. The only thing that spoiled the picture was the indifferent, stony expression on his face, which Dmitry wasn’t unused to, but would have preferred not to see.  
  
‘Hello, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’  
  
‘Hello.’  
  
Dmitry took a seat close to Vladimir’s bed, the back of which had been raised, allowing him to look out imperiously over the room. It suited him better. From his vantage point, Dmitry noticed the white gauze bandages, visible under the hospital gown, and tried not to stare. He noticed Vladimir was nervously rubbing the tube that attached his hand to the saline solution.  
  
‘You just missed Lyudmila,’ Vladimir said, not bothering to look at his friend, ‘thank your stars. She wanted to stay around all day, but I told her to amuse herself around town. She won’t miss an opportunity to spend my money.’  
  
Dmitry smiled uncomfortably, as he always did when Vladimir made an acute comment about his own wife. He indicated the rubbing motions with his chin instead.  
  
‘Is it bothering you? The needle.’  
  
‘No, nothing like that. Just… lying here like a waste of skin gets on my nerves, that’s all. I could be using this time to do something useful, like read over a report, or give a press conference, or even visit a rehabilitation centre for blind pets with drug problems, or whatever they think will please the public. If I couldn’t do any of that, I could be working on a new Judo move, or simply be stretching my muscles.’  
  
He snorted derisively.  
  
‘But no, apparently, it is vital I sit here with tubes running out of places I’d never dream they’d be running out of, for the next two weeks, and they shortened the time only after I insisted for almost an hour! Can you imagine that? In my youth, they’d slap on a plaster and tell you to take it easy for a week, and that’s if you were a woman.’  
  
‘They’re just worried about you, Volodya. It'd be horrible if you caught an infection or ripped the stitches.’  
  
‘Well, you obviously need me over there,’ he cut in sharply, ‘considering the man who shot me is not yet dead.’  
  
That stung. Dmitry grasped for words, not wanting to irritate him further, but finally gave a brief annoyed sigh, moving to better face Vladimir.  
  
‘Look, we can hardly send him to a gulag or something. If we want any sort of credibility as a government, we have to give him a fair trial. If you don’t try Ser-‘  
  
‘Don’t mention his name!’ he almost yelled, tensing his hands into the bed sheets. ‘I’m having a bad enough time knowing he still exists.’   
  
Dmitry drew back, intimidated. He was more hurt than angry at Vladimir’s accusations: he was working as hard as he could. He didn’t have the power to turn back time or subject the gunman to tortures worthy of de Sade any more than he had the power to cure bullet wounds. It was hard deciding what was best for both the country and yourself while obeying international human rights regulations... at least, to an extent.  
  
A small silence ensued, but when he continued, having exhaled deeply several times, Vladimir sounded a lot calmer.

‘You’re right, Dima, you’re right. We’ll give him a trial, and send him to jail for life. And then, well, it's easy to arrange for an accident to happen.’  
  
Dmitry’s spirits were lifted, despite the overall tone of Vladimir’s assertion (and the fact that he had already decided on a sentence for a supposedly fair trial), and he decided to try and lighten the atmosphere. He briefly spoke about current events, laughing at Vladimir’s comments and appreciating his suggestions. When the conversation had died down somewhat, Dmitry nodded at the machines humming and whirring next to them.  
  
‘Those take some getting used to.’  
  
‘If it were just the noise, I’d be alright. It's annoying to be unable to move my arm like a normal person,’ he fidgeted to demonstrate, ‘but what I miss the most is proper food. They’ve been giving me this special concoction intravenously, but I’ve not actually bitten into anything for ages. They say I’ll be allowed a human meal tomorrow, though.’  
  
He sighed.  
  
‘You know, you still me owe me that lunch.’  
  
Dmitry smiled, and touched the hand Vladimir was resting on his chest, the one the annoying needle was still planted into, and looked into his eyes.  
  
‘If I could, I’d invite you out now, but I think there will be better times. When we don’t have to feed you soup through a straw, for instance.’  
  
Vladimir gave him a look, but couldn’t help chuckling. The sound made Dmitry blush with pleasure, considering its rarity, and he was briefly thankful for the doses of morphine that slightly dulled the Prime Minister’s usual icy façade. They held their positions for a while, before Vladimir reached over and dismissively patted Dmitry’s hand.  
  
‘Alright then, it must be getting late. I appreciate your visit, but you can go back to your family. Didn’t Ilya have a girlfriend? You should keep an eye on him before he gets into mischief.’  
  
Dmitry didn’t remark on the patriarchal tone, and instead nodded pleasantly, stood and bid his goodbyes, saying he’d be back tomorrow. Before he left, Dmitry lightly traced his fingers along Vladimir’s forearm, almost unconsciously, and caught Vladimir’s gaze. The heartrate displayed on the cardio machine increased for just a few seconds, and Dmitry was out of the room.   
  
Reassured by Vladimir’s improvements, Dmitry almost whistled on the drive back home. He would have lifted Ilya off the floor in a sweeping hug if the boy wasn’t already almost as tall as he was, and opted to sit down and watch a foreign film with him instead, eating ice-cream. Any work he could start doing could wait until later.  
  
\---  
  
When he visited the hospital the next day, he was pleased to see less tubes hanging around the room, but he was worried when he noticed Vladimir had an even icier expression than the previous day. Dmitry smiled nervously and greeted him, getting a muttered something in response. He stepped to the little bench near Vladimir’s bed, and waited for his friend to say something. He waited for quite a while.  
  
‘Volodya? How are you?’ he said finally, bending forward slightly to look at Vladimir’s face. The latter snorted derisively.  
  
‘I’m in bed at two in the afternoon doing nothing and they scheduled an interview here in my room tomorrow morning, how do you think I am?’  
  
‘Well, they let you eat a proper meal, right? You seemed pleased about that, yesterday.’  
  
‘I'd be happier if the food didn’t taste like shit.’  
  
Dmitry shifted uncomfortably. He knew this room was being supplied with top-of-the-line meals, along with any other comfort they could give him. He noticed Vladimir’s anxious rubbing of the tube seemed more fervent now, and he was starting to worry he’d rip it clean out of the vein. Vladimir interrupted him before he could ask.  
  
‘They didn’t want to take me off it completely, but I made them severely reduce the morphine.’  
  
Dmitry looked at him like he had a tentacle on his forehead. After struggling to come up with a response, Dmitry limited himself to ‘why?’  
  
‘I don’t need it,’ was the reply.  
  
‘Considering the way you’re acting, I’d say you do, Volodya,’ Dmitry interjected, instinctively placing a hand on the older man’s chest, and not reacting when the latter briefly tried to shake him off. ‘You don’t need to prove anything.’  
  
‘What do you know, Dmitry Anatolevich? Of course, with your cosy law career, you never had to prove you were a man, hm? Get off me.’  
  
Dmitry couldn’t repress a laugh.  
  
‘What, real men don’t feel pain? We’re not amongst the Soviets anymore, Vladimir, and I think you’d do well to remember that. Take the morphine.’  
  
‘What does this even have to do with you? What I do with myself concerns no one but me,’ was the bitter answer, and Vladimir again attempted to push off Dmitry’s arm, gasping as his stomach muscles tensed and pain exploded in his wound.  
  
‘You don’t look any better now than if you _were_ on a drug!’ Dmitry said, exasperated. ‘And it _does_ have to do with me, Volodya, I’m your friend. I care about you.’  
  
‘If you were a friend, you’d know better than to tell me what to do,’ he replied, still clutching at his stomach and trying to regain an even breath.  
  
Dmitry’s expression softened, and he leaned into his friend slightly, sighing.  
  
‘Damn your stubbornness.’  
  
Vladimir glanced at him wordlessly, his light blue eyes vivisecting the younger man. Dmitry almost shivered at the look, and felt a hotness spread through his body. Even though they were close friends, and had been for so long they shared a sort of unspoken understanding, he was sure Vladimir had moments, like this one, in which he wanted to whip him, or strike him in the face. And, somehow, Dmitry thought this was fine.  
  
‘And damn your pride.’  
  
Vladimir continued his silence. Dmitry dreamily moved his right hand over Vladimir’s chest, never touching skin, but feeling the taut muscle under the thin layer of fabric. His hand travelled some more and came to a strong arm. He lightly pressed the area covered by the hospital shirt, which cut across the bicep. Vladimir’s gaze shifted to the hand, and he looked up slightly to see Dmitry was looking in the same direction, admiring the blue veins that ran from under the sleeve to the sinewy hand, settling into a loose hug.  
  
Dmitry caught Vladimir’s eyes and held the stare for a few seconds. Then, slowly, cautiously, he leaned in, and rested his head on a strong shoulder, closing his eyes blissfully. He felt Vladimir tense briefly before he controlled himself again, and was glad to have been able to witness a crack in the usual impeccable façade so closely. He breathed in, trying to inhale the usual scent he smelt around his friend; faded aftershave, a hint of his soap, clean skin; but only getting the sterile hospital smell instead. He burrowed closer, wanting to get to it, his short hair brushing against Vladimir’s chin as he did so. Vladimir shifted, and Dmitry realized he’d let himself get carried away, quickly sitting up, cheeks burning. His heart thudded when he saw Vladimir lift an arm towards him. Unfortunately, it was the wrong arm, and Vladimir swore as the IV needle ripped out of his vein, leaking saline solution everywhere and provoking a blood flow similar to a water feature.  
  
‘That’s just what I needed, on top of all this!’ Vladimir almost yelled, amidst a storm of curses. Dmitry sprang up, started towards the door to alert a nurse, and slipped out in the confusion, giving his friend a final urgent wave at the door before darting off.  
  
The reality of what he’d done only properly hit him about twenty minutes later, when he had almost arrived home. Remembering the hug, he felt his head heat up with embarrassment, and a little more when he realized he was reacting like a teenager. He’d been jokingly teased by friends about his childish idealism and fondness for gadgets and sweets, but he’d never thought his apparent youthfulness extended to his emotional maturity. He ran a hand through his short hair, staring at his shoes. There was no good explanation for what he’d done. The overwhelming urge to touch, to be close, had been there ever since he’d met the man, and had only grown more intense over the years. Vladimir was the person his five senses were the sharpest around, a simple brush of their hands making him happy the whole day long.  
  
Dmitry hadn’t ever tried to explain away the nagging feelings he had around his friend, because he’d quite simply never stopped to give them much thought. He wasn’t simple-minded, far from it, but he’d always had more pressing issues to think about, and when he was free, he usually had to turn his attention to his family. That was another issue: he loved Svetlana and Ilya. Dearly. He just couldn’t help thinking of Vladimir at the height of intimacy with his wife, or wishing the older man were there when he took Ilya to the beach.  
  
It had been easy to avoid confronting himself, but Vladimir’s brush with death urged Dmitry’s feelings into the spotlight, and they’d started to make his body seek out the contact he’d always craved, almost without him noticing.  
  
And it had to stop.

\---

Dmitry didn’t visit his friend for days after what had happened, and tried to push him out of his thoughts as much as possible. This didn’t stop him from watching the interview Vladimir had mentioned, Lyudmila serving as a faithful prop near the bed, or from reading the articles he came across about the shooting in any language he could comprehend. But this was okay. It was for work.  
  
He tried to concentrate on the job, but it proved difficult. For some reason, he just couldn’t focus on any important matters. Instead of listening to any information his secretary, Arkady, told him, he could only think of how large the young man’s forehead looked, and wondered how many lines he could write on it.  
  
Things weren’t much better at home. He put up a good front, but it was obvious his family noticed something off about his behaviour. Even the housekeeping staff seemed to pick up on it, as Dmitry noticed they were treating him with an extra amount of care. It was alright for now, they’d all assume he was still shaken by the assassination attempt, as anyone would be, and while it was true that he’d gotten the habit of looking around at nearby buildings whenever he left any place, his mixture of feelings towards Vladimir had taken an even more prominent spot.   
  
After much deliberation, he accepted a press service’s request to drop by the hospital on the last day of Vladimir’s convalescence. He would stay a few moments, pictures would be taken, and then Vladimir would probably be seen striding about the Kremlin like he owned the place (and, really, didn’t he?) in a matter of days. Around lunch, he stepped into the car and nervously tapped his fingers against the window along the way.  
  
This time he wasn’t lucky enough to avoid Lyudmila, and quickly plastered on a smile. The wife looked a lot… better than he had expected her to, considering the circumstances. It was good that she wasn’t too under the weather, of course, but it was slightly queer since, well, her husband had gotten shot. That usually dampens someone’s spirits.  
  
‘Ah, Dmitry Anatolevich!’ she greeted, making Vladimir slowly turn his head as well, acknowledging his presence. Dmitry felt a mix of relief and confusion at the completely calm expression on the other man’s face, the feelings increasing (accompanied by a warmth in his chest) when he noted the hint of a smile on his thin face. Dmitry said hello and walked in, carefully closing the door.  
  
Lyudmila started speaking to him like they were the only ones in the room, chit-chatting about various work-related affairs Dmitry had to partially invent in order to give himself some countenance and hide the fact that he’d not been paying undivided attention to his job for close to a week. After a little while, during which Vladimir had probably spoken three sentences, she excused herself to go out for lunch, and bid her goodbyes to Dmitry, saying she’d return in a few hours. When she exited, a young assistant opened the door and asked if they were ready. Vladimir said yes before Dmitry could say anything, and the make-up crew and journalists dutifully trooped in.  
  
The photo session was unremarkable, and not much different from their previous ones. They pretended to be engaged in a jovial conversation; Dmitry pointed at some invisible object for Vladimir to look at so a good angle could be taken; Vladimir smiled bravely at the camera, Dmitry’s face slightly blurred into the background near the fresh flowers of the room’s nightstand. Once they were done, the journalists thanked the two men and were escorted out by security, wondering which pictures would make the invalid look most like a war hero.  
  
Once the two men were alone, there was a silence. Not an uncomfortable one, per se, but one nonetheless, spoiled only by the occasional noises from the machines and Vladimir’s sometimes laboured breathing, annoyingly indicating he still hadn’t taken the morphine. Finally, Dmitry gestured towards his friend’s hand.  
  
‘Was it easy to contain?’  
  
‘Oh, yes, it was more a show than anything serious,’ Vladimir said pleasantly, moving the hand. ‘They just popped it right back in after cleaning everything up. They’re supposed to remove it completely this afternoon though, along with a million other tubes and needles.’  
  
‘You must be looking forward to going home.’  
  
‘I suppose. I’ve missed Koni and Tosya, and I’m looking forward to seeing Katya and Mashka again. I’ve seen plenty of Lyude during the past days. Did you notice how she ignored me while she talked to you?’ he sighed. ‘I give her the best life she could ask for, and this is what I get. I’d advise you not to get married, but I suppose I’m a few years too late.’  
  
Dmitry smiled, ignoring persistent thoughts of how Vladimir probably wasn’t completely innocent in his wife’s cold conduct, and of how easy it was to look down the front of that hospital gown. The conversation continued easily, Vladimir sometimes having to stop to suppress anger at a surge of pain. Dmitry quickly discovered the reason for his cheerful mood: someone had dropped by with a few dossiers from work, and Vladimir had had occasion to peruse them and scribble down notes and corrections, which he read to his new spectator. Dmitry found himself paying much closer attention than when his other cabinet members had made similar remarks. He probably got more actual work done in that hour than he had all week.  
  
Finally, when most work matters were temporarily settled, Vladimir asked:  
  
‘Well, Dima, we both know how I am. But, tell me, how have you been getting on with what happened?’  
  
Dmitry shrugged.  
  
‘I’m alright, really. A little paranoid, but that’s normal. My nights have been dreamless and peaceful. Most of my worry has been about you, Volodya. I, actually…’  
  
He sighed.  
  
‘I actually feel somewhat guilty about what happened, to be honest.’  
  
Now it was Vladimir’s turn to stare at him incredulously.  
  
‘I thought you were smarter than to blame yourself rather than a criminal madman.’  
  
‘Yes, which is why I said somewhat. If I felt it was entirely my fault, I’m not sure I could face you. Logic tells me I didn’t do anything, but Se- that man confessed, as I’m sure you read, that he was aiming the first shot at me.’  
  
‘And the second at me, so in the end, he got it half right, he’s just a terrible aim.’  
  
‘Still,’ he said, his tone not rising above a sort of gentle assertiveness, ‘I feel it’s unfair that it should be you lying in this bed all day.’  
  
‘I agree,’ Vladimir replied, looking out the window, ‘but I don’t see how you blaming yourself will help the situation. I’ll be out tomorrow, and I’ll be at work as soon as I can, though I’ll have to take half days for now. To be honest, though I hate that man more than I can express, he has provided us with a splendid amount of publicity. It was gratifying to see the huge support march in the square, on Wednesday.’  
  
Dmitry nodded. It was horrible to admit to it, but this was a fact. The administration had seen a boost in popularity, and many people had mailed flowers and portraits to the Kremlin. Any dissidents had been drowned out by the compassion of the Russian people, and those who were on the fence politically fell over to the favourable side. These were hardly unexpected reactions, but they were rather flattering to see.  
  
Looking at Vladimir, Dmitry was glad for all these topics of conversation. He’d been nervous for days, thinking about a rough confrontation, but everything was going rather pleasantly, even the photo shoot, which he usually wasn’t very thrilled about. He liked taking pictures, yes, but he had had to get used to being in them constantly.  
  
When he noticed he’d been there almost four hours, Dmitry stood.  
  
‘I guess I’d better go, Lyudmila will be arriving soon.’  
  
Vladimir laughed.  
  
‘Yes, hurry off, we can’t let her find out about our affair!’  
  
Dmitry tensed up slightly, but chuckled in return, propping the chair closer to the bed. Waving, he said his goodbyes and left. The last he saw of Vladimir that day was him laying back in bed, a content smile on his face and his eyes closed. Thinking back on the photo session in the car, he remembered some poses they were told would be good that made him blush crimson, like holding up a work dossier between the two of them, like a couple. It was almost like everyone else knew, sometimes, and they were all kind enough to provide him with opportunities to be closer to the man he felt so attracted to. Too attracted to. He had to walk awkwardly to hide his embarrassment when they reached the house. Thankfully, Svetlana was out and Ilya was on a field trip, so he was able to take himself in hand in no time.  
  
\---  
  
The week-end and subsequent few days passed by in a haze of film-watching, junk food and hastily finished work, but everything seemed to grind to a halt when he saw Vladimir on Wednesday morning. He’d been driven from his house to the Kremlin in his usual car, but there was some fussing around his door while they got something out of the trunk. Dmitry soon saw why when he went to greet them and saw a bodyguard pushing an annoyed-looking Prime Minister in a comfortable wheelchair.  
  
‘Dima!’ Though they usually put on airs of formality in public, they were so used to the security personnel they usually ignored them and just used nicknames. ‘This is unacceptable. I tell them I’ll tolerate the chair for a week or two, we all agree and rejoice, and now they won’t let me control the thing myself. I feel like an old woman.’  
  
The bodyguard shot the President a helpless look.  
  
‘They told us you shouldn’t stress yourself, sir,’ he mumbled, gripping the handles of the chair. ‘We don’t want you to have to go back to hospital because of ripped stitches…’  
  
‘I don’t think the bullet wound will migrate to my arms,’ Vladimir sniffed, shifting in his seat. Dmitry looked on doubtfully, trying to ignore the throbbing mob of journalists just outside the authorized Kremlin perimeter. Finally, he shrugged.  
  
‘Well, if we have to put on a show, I’ll take you.’  
  
‘Are you sure you’re strong enough?’  
  
Dmitry felt slightly miffed at the question, and answered that yes, of course he was. And indeed, though the man was heavier than he had expected, he wasn’t all that hard to manoeuvre. Dmitry made sure to smile at empty air while he heard the distant sounds of cameras in the background. Vladimir just stared up at his workplace, and relaxed a little.  
  
‘Home.’  
  
Dmitry nodded softly, smiling when Vladimir tipped his head back to look into his eyes, just for a second. Of course, that was captured on camera and would be printed in several newspapers the day after and remembered for about a week as a ‘cute’ moment, published alongside pictures of people like Cameron and Clegg in a ‘top-ten leadership marriages’ countdown in the Huffington Post, but at the time, Dmitry was glad.  
  
Once inside the building, the bodyguards dissipated and headed over to their usual stations while Dmitry wheeled his friend over to their corridor. Vladimir’s face lit up when he saw his office, and he became eager to stand. Dmitry parked the chair near the back wall, close to Vladimir’s desk, and stood by while the other man removed a metal cane from the side of the chair. Dmitry felt a wave a relief wash over him when he saw Vladimir discreetly remove a small bottle from his inside pocket and shake a pill out, taking it with a gulp of a bottle of water he had strapped near the cane. After giving Dmitry a look that said ‘I’m doing this under protest and only in dire circumstances’, the gaze shifted to a sort of expectancy.  
  
‘Can you hoist me up? That’s the only thing I really need help with, since I do have to tense my stomach muscles.’  
  
‘Of course.’  
  
Dmitry suppressed a shiver as his soft hands grazed ones roughened by sports, and, supporting the older man’s frame with his other arm, gently raised him from the seat, intending to let go when he heard the cane tap on the floor. But Vladimir held onto the hand. Firmly. Dmitry could only dry-swallow.  
  
‘Thank you, Dima,’ his friend purred with a smile. ‘I think I’ll be able to manage alone later on, so I won’t have to disturb you.’  
  
‘Oh, don’t mention it—‘  
  
‘Which is why I’ll take some of your time now instead of when you’re busy.’  
  
Dmitry let out a sort of strangled laugh, but didn’t move from his spot on the carpet. He was acutely aware of Vladimir’s hand slowly making its way along his arm, eventually ending on his shoulder.  
  
‘Volodya…‘ Dmitry mumbled, hoping his face looked presentable and doing his best to keep his hands from shaking. Vladimir gave Dmitry’s shoulder a squeeze, causing the other man to breathe in sharply, and smiled slyly. He leaned in, letting out a low ‘ha’ when he saw Dmitry’s face redden, and then simply let go and hobbled to the comfortable leather chair behind his desk.  
  
Dmitry stayed still for a few moments, still lost in the daze, before blinking once and noticing Vladimir staring at him. He blinked again and laughed uneasily, taking a step backwards.  
  
‘Well then, Volodya, I’ll go to my office. If you want to discuss something, call me. Don’t force yourself to come over or we’ll have to take your cane and put a clamp on your wheels.’  
  
Vladimir waved dismissively, amused, and proceeded to turn to his desk and ignore any interference. He had a lot of catching up to do, despite the small session they’d had at the hospital the week before. Dmitry closed the door as silently as he could, walked over to his office, and flopped in his own chair, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh. That man would be the death of him.  
  
\---  
  
When he was asked over the phone to kindly hurry and remove his colleague from his chair at the end of the day, Dmitry didn’t know whether to be worried or not. He opened the door to reveal a Vladimir Putin with a curiously calm expression, considering the predicament he was in.  
  
‘I suppose I’ll just stay in the wheelchair from now on,’ he said pleasantly, making no attempt to shift from his seat. ‘This one is a lot easier on the back, but one tends to get burrowed in the leather.’

Dmitry looked on from the doorway, puzzled.

‘How did you go to lunch?’  
  
‘I didn’t. Got up once to piss and then thought ‘fuck it’, haven’t moved since.’  
  
At this point, nothing was really that surprising. Sighing, Dmitry walked over to the man and repeated the morning’s gesture, struggling a little (as Vladimir was indeed slightly embedded in the chair) but resolving the issue quickly. He staggered back, and almost dropped his friend when he realized Vladimir was holding on to his arms, not bothering with the cane.  
  
‘Dima.’  
  
He had his head against Dmitry’s, their cheeks touching. Dmitry’s hands shook as he moved them to his friend’s arms to support him. Vladimir stepped back a little, and grinned in a way Dmitry had never seen.  
  
‘I’m so fucking high,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’ve never taken this kind of pain medicine before and it’s so peaceful, it feels fan _tastic_.’  
  
He stressed the last part of the word, clinging to Dmitry, running his hands softly on the other man’s back. Dmitry giggled nervously, his voice jumping an octave when he felt Vladimir’s lips graze his jaw as his head leant back once more.  
  
‘Your skin feels so good,’ he whispered, mouth still near his friend’s neck, ‘like materialized sex.’  
  
‘Volodya,’ Dmitry said urgently, half-heartedly trying and failing to push Vladimir off, ‘you’re not yourself, stop it.’  
  
‘I think we’re more ourselves when we’re in altered spirits,’ he answered, with a strange note of finality, like this killed any argument Dmitry might try next. He had been persistently stroking his friend’s back, and let his hand wander upwards, to his collar, and eventually to the back of his head. Dmitry tried not to sigh at the feeling of those hands passing through his hair, every displaced strand sending a tingle through his spine, giving him the weird impression for a second of his scalp being somehow directly linked with his backbone. Vladimir leaned in and rested his head on Dmitry’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Dmitry responded by slightly tilting his head against Vladimir’s, not knowing what else to do, but feeling the panic that had surged in him gradually dissipate. They stood like this for a while, embracing, Dmitry sometimes gently rocking to balance Vladimir’s weight. Strangely, he didn’t feel odd or awkward about the gesture, he just had a feeling of everything being right and in its place in the universe.  
  
Eventually, Vladimir patted Dmitry’s back, and the spell was broken. The older man leaned against the desk while Dmitry took the cane from the floor and handed it to him, watching as Vladimir smartly walked the short distance to the wheelchair. He settled down without complaint, and Dmitry went to remove him from his spot.  
  
Just before Dmitry reached the doorknob, he heard a voice telling him to wait. So he did.  
  
‘Dima,’ Vladimir was addressing Dmitry’s back, ‘it was stupid of me to miss lunch, it’s true, but you have to understand that I had so much to catch up with, and the meds, well, as much as I hate them, they really help me to keep a steady, painless rhythm for hours with minimal distractions. I think it’s really worth it.’  
  
‘Yes, Volodya.’  
  
Vladimir gently cleared his throat.  
  
‘So, Dima, could we alter an old promise?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression, ‘I'd like you to come to my house for lunch, say, this Saturday?’  
  
Dmitry smiled.  
  
‘Of course, Volodya.’  
  
Dmitry almost skipped as he drove Vladimir out of the office, and happily continued his chauffeuring duties for the remainder of the week.  
  
\---  
  
‘Just put it on if you want to so much.’  
  
Dmitry looked from his wife, who was sitting on the bed, to the inside of his closet several times before sighing.  
  
‘I don’t think I’ll visit Vladimir Vladimirovich on a Saturday wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt.’  
  
Svetlana shrugged, and Dmitry felt guilty. He understood her wanting to participate in his life. He’d been neglecting her for the past few weeks, always working, or, when he had free time, visiting Vladimir or devoting it to personal leisure or time with his son. The most contact they’d had had been accidental brushes under the covers, when both thought the other was asleep. Dmitry went over to her.  
  
‘Sveta,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘go treat yourself to a new outfit today, and tomorrow, we can go see a show, if you want. I haven’t been the best husband, but you’ve been the best wife, and I want to make it up to you.’  
  
Svetlana instantly beamed at him.  
  
‘I can’t say no to a little shopping spree, but don’t worry, Dimusha. I know how hard it's been for you,’ she said, before pressing a kiss to his lips. ‘Go see Vladimir Vladimirovich. Without the Black Sabbath shirt.’  
  
Dmitry kissed her on the cheek and stroked her face. He was glad he had married her. She knew how to cheer him up, and she was undoubtedly one of his most cherished friends. This made him all the guiltier of his feelings towards Vladimir.  
  
\---  
  
A maid showed him the way to the drawing room, passing several grandly decorated halls filled with animal furs, paintings and gold, the slightly gaudy halls of a millionaire who had risen from poverty. Nevertheless, Dmitry liked Vladimir’s house. He felt comfortable there, almost at home.  
  
Vladimir was sitting in his wheelchair, pensively looking out of the window. He was wearing light beige slacks and a thin grey sweater over a white shirt, which, although it suited him, made him look his age. He smiled when Dmitry came in, and waved the maid away.  
  
‘Hello, Dima. I’m very pleased to see you.’  
  
‘Likewise,’ he replied, shaking his friend’s hand. The thought that forty years ago, leaders in their positions would kiss to greet each other crossed his mind, but he kicked it out as swiftly as it had entered.  
  
‘How’s the pain?’  
  
‘Manageable. I’m sorry for my spectacle last Wednesday; I’d misjudged the appropriate amount of pills. I now know to take them only when in dire need.’  
  
Vladimir shifted slightly during this tirade, and if Dmitry didn’t know better, he’d say he could detect embarrassment. The notion seemed so farfetched he rejected it immediately. Indeed, Vladimir hadn’t repeated his performance, and he’d managed to climb in and out of his seat alone, though Dima still insisted on driving him when he saw him.  
  
‘Lunch will be served soon, Dima. Would you like a drink?’  
  
Vladimir was in the process of wheeling himself over to the drinks cabinet when Lyudmila walked in. Dmitry stood up immediately, surprised at her presence. Lyudmila seemed equally taken aback.  
  
‘Volodya,’ she said, sharply looking at him, ‘no one told me Dmitry Anatolevich was here!’  
  
‘I didn’t think you’d care for the information.’  
  
‘Really,’ she sighed, hurrying over to their guest, ‘I’m sorry, Dmitry Anatolevich, but I’m kept quite uninformed. How are you?’  
  
While the two chattered politely, Dmitry looked around Lyudmila. Vladimir was in the background, looking bored and pouring himself a glass of what looked rather like a small amount of whiskey. He had two more glasses during the meal, the better part of which Dmitry spent exchanging pleasantries with Vladimir’s wife, managing to get the occasional word in to the man himself. He noted that while Vladimir and Lyudmila largely ignored each other, there didn’t seem to be any animosity. They simply acted like two strangers who had met to have a meal with a common friend.  
  
Things continued much like this until just after dessert, when Lyudmila bid her goodbyes and left for some meeting she had scheduled. Dmitry and Vladimir found themselves once again in the drawing room. When Vladimir started pouring another measure of whiskey, Dmitry felt an odd sense of déja vu.  
  
‘It’s good to see Lyudmila’s doing so well,’ he piped up, standing to fetch the glass that was being extended to him.   
  
‘She tires me. That tends to happen, after so many years of marriage, unless one had found the perfect woman.’ He balanced the glass precariously on his leg, and rolled himself to Dmitry’s side, grabbing his drink just before it toppled onto his lap. ‘And as I am sure such a woman doesn’t exist for me, I think I would be in the same situation no matter whom I had married, though I expect I could have at least found one who would care about my being shot.’  
  
‘Are you unhappy?’  
  
‘No, I don’t think so. But I can’t say I’m fulfilled. I expect I’ll never again be as happy as when I worked with the KGB, posted in Germany with my daughters.’  
  
Dmitry took a long swig of his drink, eyeing Vladimir. He didn’t seem sad, he just had an air of melancholy about him, and that was hardly unusual. In an odd way, Dmitry could relate to what he was hearing, and though he loved Svetlana dearly, he started to worry that his feelings might start to rot on the inside, much like the ones this couple shared. Vladimir was thirteen years older, after all. A lot could change in thirteen years. When Dmitry tore himself from his thoughts, he saw Vladimir was looking at him, smiling faintly now, but still with that same air about him.  
  
‘And you, Dima, are you unhappy?’  
  
‘I don’t think I am, no.’  
  
‘That’s good. You don’t deserve to be unhappy.' He hissed slightly when he bent to place his glass on the table, and continued when he’d managed to control himself. ‘in fact, Dima, I think you deserve to know that you have an adorable quality about you.’  
  
Dmitry limited himself to looking at Vladimir, a slightly confused expression appearing on his face, which wasn’t unusual for him, either.  
  
‘Meaning that you have something, I’m not sure what, that deserves to be adored. Svetlana is a lucky woman. I hope she realizes just to what extent.’  
  
Dmitry nodded weakly, thumbing the edge of his glass and feeling the drink swirl inside. For a long time, nothing was said, but time seemed to pass quickly, and soon, an hour had gone by. Vladimir looked at the clock.  
  
‘I expect you have to go, I’m sure you have many things to do on a Saturday. I think I’ll work on some of next week’s reports, I’ll get a maid to bring them down.’  
  
‘Alright.’  
  
After slowly standing, Dmitry shook Vladimir’s hand, and headed to the door. He put a hand on the doorknob, and had twisted it just halfway down when he paused, letting the handle shift his hand back up as the door’s mechanism negated his small effort. He felt like he was on a double-edged cliff, and walking in either direction would change his life forever.  
  
‘If you want,’ he said, his voice sounding distressingly loud in the silent room, ‘I could stay, and work on those reports with you.’  
  
A pause. Dmitry turned his body slightly, hand still on the handle. Finally, Vladimir’s lips twisted slightly.  
  
‘Nothing would make me happier.’


End file.
